Quod Es Hoc Erimus
by HumanTrampoline
Summary: Such as you are, so we shall be. Death visits us all and grief follows close behind. F!Hawke/Fenris
1. Hawke

**A.N.: Usual disclaimers apply. Piece is set prior to "A Bitter Pill" but after "All That Remains".**

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><p>I'm almost certain Gamlen thinks I'm crazy, standing here in the pre-dawn light, asking for some of Mother's ashes. I know it isn't <em>done<em> in Kirkwall; ashes are not parsed out to grieving family members. Remains are to be left… complete. But I **need** to grieve and a funeral held within cold stone walls is not the way I wish to honor my mother.

There is a searching look in his eyes before he simply nods and takes the empty leather pouch from my hands. He leaves the door ajar, an unspoken invitation to come in but I remain in the cold just beyond the doorstep. The chill of the morning across my face is welcome proof that I can still feel _something_. Gamlen returns shortly with my pouch, now slightly dusty, and drops it into my outstretched hand. He pauses before closing the door.

"Will you be... traveling alone, then?"

So he _has_ noticed the lack of companions. I'm slightly surprised; he's never shown a whit of interest in the company I keep. I was under the impression my friends were little more than place holders in his mind, completely inconsequential. I only nod in confirmation. I don't care to explain that my grief is too raw to share with Isabela and Varric. Or that it would simply make Merrill uncomfortable. Or that Avaline is too... Avaline and Anders is far too lost to his own ambitions. Or that I would rather walk through the Void itself than burden Fenris with my sorrows when he already has enough of his own. Avaline tried, after the funeral, and I did appreciate it. But she's not the sort to understand 'Thank you, but I'd rather curl up in a ball and die' so I'd said my thanks and tried to make it seem like she was helping.

Gamlen tilts his head, considering. "I won't say much other than... be careful." For a moment I can see the pain on his face. I nod again and he quietly closes the door.

After securing the pouch against my belt I follow the winding streets out of the city. Kirkwall is eerily silent in the mornings before the merchants have set out their wares. I only meet with a handful of other souls, mostly servants running clandestine errands. They duck past me as I make my way, intent on their purpose. I keep my stride steady until I reach my destination. The sun has risen fully although it is not yet mid-morning. For all my joking and all of Varric's grousing, the Wounded Coast actually has some desolate beauty to it when one isn't distracted by fighting against mercenaries or slavers. Or blood mages. Or Tal-Vashoth. I let out a weary sigh. When did my life become this?

I lay out my cloak near the shore and remove my old leathers, creating a neat bundle. My daggers I unsheathe and set to the side, well within reach should trouble arise. The wind off the water blows around my tunic and breeches as I turn to face the sea. Somewhere across that great expanse is Ferelden, and within the brown and the cold dwell my father's people. I feel my heart constrict at the thought. I had told Fenris that I stayed because my family was here. Now my words are only a sad lie. I am alone. Father, lost to illness; Bethany and Carver, both taken by darkspawn; And now Mother. _Mother. _I sink to my knees and cover my face as a sob wells up within me.

_Mother making faces at Carver to break him out of a mood. _

_Mother laughing at Bethany and me as we try to catch firebugs outside the house. _

_She and Father talking quietly in the evenings. _

_Smoothing my hair out of my face, her hand tracing the mark on my left cheek. _

_Assuring me that I would grow into my responsibilities, instilling confidence in me. _

_Mother reading to Bethany, distracting her from her first fireball wound. _

_Her fury when Carver hid a toad in my bed. Or nailed Bethany's braid to it._

_Her scent, her laugh, her hands. Never again._

My mother is dead.

My heart is broken.

I draw a shaky breath and try to gather myself. I still carry her ashes. Standing, I loosen the pouch from my belt and walk out into the ocean. With the surf sliding gently around my boots, I struggle to remember the words from Father's rite. I stand tall and recite them with as much strength as I can manage.

"Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance. For the dust must return to the ground, and the spirit must return to that which gave it. Such as you are, so we shall be..."

It is not the full rite, but it will do. I draw the string from the pouch and watch as my mother's ashes slowly melt into the sea. "Take her away," I whisper to the waves. "Take her away from this place and all its sorrows."

My vision blurs again with unshed tears as I walk back to my belongings. I fall in a heap next to them and draw my knees up to my chin. It's almost mid-day but I have no desire to journey back. I stare out at the ocean and let my mind wander over my memories. I can feel the tears sliding down my face but I make no effort to hide them. I am alone and now it's my turn to grieve.


	2. Fenris

I've trailed her since she left Kirkwall. Bodhan had been very helpful with his information once I assured him that his lady would not hear of it from me. She intends to grieve for her mother alone, and I will not deny her that. I only follow to insure her safety and judging by the ease with which I shadow her, she is in no mental state to fend off would-be attackers.

I had thought that this would be an easy task; I have stood guard in one way or another for as long as I can remember. Yet standing on this dune watching Hawke surrender to her grief I have to struggle against a foreign desire rising in me. Something from within is screaming at me to close the distance between us, calling for me to do something, anything, to ease the pain of my friend. It is almost uncomfortable in its intensity but I fight the compulsion. She has not asked for aid in this and I will not offend her sensibilities.

I watch as she turns out and walks into the sea, holding what I can only assume are her mother's ashes against her chest. The wind carries some of her words back to me, something about rivers of silence and dust returning. I blink and feel my brow furrow in confusion. Her mother was already given funeral rites but these words sound nothing like the Chantry's service. At this point I realize that Hawke has never given any indication that she herself is Andrastian and I can't help the spike of curiosity this revelation brings. My need to know this woman is less surprising after three years at her side, yet I doubt that I will ever truly understand it.

Her movement catches my eye and I curse inwardly as she turns back to land. The shoreline offers precious few places for concealment and I am nothing but conspicuous in my armor. I hold my breath and pray to the Maker that somehow she will not notice me. I exhale only after she trudges out of the water and... collapses next to her equipment, sand caking on her boots. The earlier craving to make my presence known returns ten-fold as Hawke slowly draws in on herself, shoulders shaking from weeping. _Venhedis_. Before I can think my feet carry me across the sand, my hands reaching for the sword strapped across my back. I lay my weapon beside her daggers and a sidelong glance assures me she is still ignorant of my trespass. I reach for her cloak and move to stand beside her, my hands wringing the dark material. Uncertainty races through me. _Now what. _The nameless force that propelled me across the dunes is gone in a rush and for a brief instant I consider turning on my heel and running.

Until Hawke turns her head to look up at me, her skin pale and wan in the half-light. Tear tracks are plain on her face and her eyes are bright. She looks utterly defeated and for some reason I feel as though I should be protecting her. From what, I can't imagine, but the feeling rises in me all the same. I watch as her expression changes from shocked to worried and then finally settles on guilty. My confusion is only momentary as I realize she probably expects me to berate her for this expedition. And perhaps I will, for it is foolish to travel alone, but she is no longer alone and now is not the time. I shake my head as she opens her mouth to speak. _You have no need to defend yourself to me. _I try to make my intentions clear by my expression since I cannot trust my voice to rise past the tightness in my chest. She seems to understand and closes her eyes, resting her head on her knees again. She is not angry with me for following her and I feel relief flood through me. Emboldened by this knowledge I kneel beside her and carefully pull her cloak around her small form. She murmurs her thanks and shifts underneath the material, allowing it to settle on her shoulders. I simply nod an acknowledgment and sit in the sand next to her, the scent of her soap still tingling in my nose.

A memory rises in my mind of Hawke's mother explaining that the smell was evergreen, some form of tree native to Ferelden. Apparently these trees remained hale even through the harsh southern winters. I had voiced an opinion then that the scent suited her daughter well; it was sharp and clean. Mistress Amell had laughed and nodded. 'My daughter,' she had said 'is so very much like those trees. So very much like her father.' Her expression then had been somehow both sad and joyful. I feel my own pang of loss as the memory passes. She had been a good woman, and now she was gone. I take a breath to clear my thoughts and try to find the right words. _Honesty is usually best._

"I… don't know what to say, so I will say very little. I am sorry. I cannot imagine what you must be feeling, but I am here."

Hawke turns her head again and I can tell she's trying to smile although the result is fragile and broken.

"That's all I ask. Grief is a private thing, but it is an easier burden when shared..." Her voice is thin and it tightens as she trails off. I can see in her eyes that her words have brought up some piece of the past. Her expression buckles and she ducks her head again, dark hair sliding over her face, desperate to hide her tears. Some part of me warns that she is better left alone, whispers that I am useless to her. I banish those thoughts as quickly as they come. Somehow I know that she needs me in this place and I will not turn from her, my own demons be damned.

The same compulsion that drove me to her side returns as I lay a hand on her shoulder. After years of avoiding contact the sensation of heat through her cloak is strange but not painful, as I had expected. I can see her eyes on me through splits in her curtain of hair. I'm unsure of how to comfort her with my limited experience but something in her eyes guides me. I reach for her and she moves towards me and suddenly she's pressed against my side, my arms around her with her head tucked under my chin. She wriggles a little, trying to find a comfortable place against my armor and I almost regret wearing it. Two thundering heart beats and she settles against me, seeming satisfied with her position. I nearly forget to breathe as the situation finally starts to register: the texture of her hair beneath my chin, the heat of her forehead against my neck, the pressure of another body against mine.

I can _feel_ her draw in a shuddering breath; the oddity of it sets my head spinning. Her voice is still thin, her usual bright undertones completely absent. "Thank you, Fenris. I… You don't know how much this means to me." Her last words are halting, as though she's trying to fight against another fit of grief. I move one of my hands up and down the side of her arm in what I hope is a soothing gesture. Just as the witch had warned her the time for her regrets had come. If she will not allow herself to grieve… _Set your arms down, Marian. Do not let this consume you. _My relief is almost palpable when she draws in another breath and finally lets herself break.

And so I sit in the sand, comforting this woman who has altered my stars beyond reckoning, my own mind a powerful mix of confusion and sympathy and… hope. _Festis bei umo canavarum._


End file.
